‘So, did tha learn owt t’day?’
‘Aye, John-Tommy fettled us about t’lads at t’Front.’
‘How d’ya mean?’
‘Told us to stop moitherin’ an’ count our blessin’s!’
‘ ’E’s champion, that lad. Am reet glad ’e’s lookin’ after you lot. Mebbe he’ll get tha through it in one piece.’
Cath carries on with the teasing. ‘So, tha’s been diggin’ trenches; dost that mean tha’s proper soldiers now?’
Mick responds with a grin. ‘Aye, except wi don’t get shot at t’end o’ t’day, we come ere an’ get lathered!’
Locre, West Flanders, Belgium
The men of 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers have just enjoyed another three nights in billets in Locre. Harry Woodruff and Maurice Tait are enjoying a beer in their increasingly comfortable serjeants’ mess in the vestry of Locre’s L’Église St Pierre. More and more scraps of furniture have been added by each battalion billeted there, and the walls are now festooned with incongruous military memorabilia from the fighting at the Front and bric-a-brac from the local area.
Pickelhaube helmets retrieved from no-man’s-land hang next to family photographs rescued from destroyed Belgian houses. There are shelves full of old ration tins, the remnants of Red Cross parcels and empty beer and wine bottles, some with candles in them. Graffiti covers every inch of the bare walls, most of it totally inappropriate for a priest’s vestry. Almost anything is utilized in an attempt to transform a stark and alien environment into a familiar home from home. There is even the frame of a bicycle against one wall, astride which is a naked female mannequin – christened ‘Big Marge’ by Harry, after his favourite ‘lady friend’ back home in Leyton.
Locre’s ‘Big Marge’ is minus her left leg, has only half a right arm and has lost the index finger of her remaining hand. She also has two bullet holes to the head and her torso is the canvas for much graffiti, none of which is either chaste or reverential.
It will be Harry’s and Maurice’s last beer for a while, as the Fusiliers will be relieving their colleagues, 1st Battalion Honourable Artillery Company and 2nd Battalion South Lancs, early tomorrow morning, but not in the best of spirits. The Fusiliers’ morale is being severely eroded, not by battle, but by worsening sickness and incessant sniping. The German marksmen are lethal and seem to grasp every opportunity to kill or maim any man who strays into a vulnerable position. On the day they left the trenches they suffered six casualties, three men killed outright, during the morning of their pull-out, and three more as they were being relieved. All were hit with unerring accuracy in the head; one or two particularly skilful snipers seem to be doing most of the damage.
The battalion’s new colonel, Fraser Campbell, is just one of the many sick and injured. Campbell, who has now got a bad knee to add to the ankle he sprained inspecting the trenches, has not inspired much confidence so far, having twice gone sick within days of taking command. Lice, vermin, insanitary conditions, sodden trenches and ferociously cold weather are slowly wearing down even the doughtiest individuals, leaving the battalion with only about 60 per cent of its men fit and able to fight.
Maurice’s and Harry’s companies have not fired a shot in anger for several weeks and are frustrated that the German snipers are gradually reducing their number, as if the men were coconuts on a fairground shooting range. In an attempt to fight back, Harry has devised an audacious plan. Not only that, he has decided it will have to be executed without the consent of their officers, who, were they to ask them, would almost certainly refuse him permission.
‘Next Thursday, Mo, the last night of our next stint. It’ll be the dark of the old silver spoon. We’ll take four top blokes and see if we can nail at least one of those Hun twats.’
‘An’ how’ll we do that?’
‘The old soldiers’ way: tunic an’ boots orf; strip to the waist …’
‘Wot, in this bleedin’ cold! It’ll be the death of us.’
‘No, we grease oursel’s up against the cold; black up wiv dubbin’; bayonet between the teeth like the Gurkha boys; crawl up close to the Hun position; wait till we see his rifle flash; then cut the fucker’s head orf!’
‘We’ll ’ave to be sharp about it.’
‘Yer, but it’ll be worth it if we can do for one of ’em.’
Maurice thinks for a minute, trying to decide if Harry’s plan could work. Then he smiles at him. ‘Right, I’m in. Next Thursday it is.’
As Harry and Maurice raise their beer bottles to one another to confirm their clandestine mission, 4th Battalion’s new serjeant major, Eddie Fothergill, walks into the mess and makes a beeline for them.
‘You two been suckin’ the adjutant’s dick or wot?’
Harry does not like Fothergill and, rather than take the suggestion with its intended humour, bristles at the comment.
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Mr Fothergill. Too many ’ave sucked it already!’
Fothergill stares at Harry and leans forwards in an attempt to intimidate him; not an easy manoeuvre, given that the top of the battalion’s senior NCO’s head only just reaches Harry’s chin. The volume of laughter and chatter in the mess diminishes as several men realize that two old stags might be about to lock horns. Maurice sees what is coming and intercedes.
‘Beer, Mr Fothergill?’
Fothergill likes a beer, and relents. ‘Thanks, Colour Tait. That’ll do very well.’
Maurice beckons to Harry to go and get Fothergill a bottle of the local Belgian beer, a brew that is growing in popularity in the mess. Fortunately, Harry takes the hint and wanders off to the lance corporal behind the makeshift bar, who is keeping a tally of the mess bills.
‘So, Mr Fothergill, wot’s our reward for suckin’ O’Dowd’s dick?’
‘You’re goin’ ’ome. Two weeks’ leave, the pair of yer. Not Armentières, not Paris, but Blighty.’
‘Fuck me!’
‘Exactly! Apparently, only an ’an’ful of senior NCOs ’ave made it this far. So you’re on yer way to Calais in the morning. You jammy pair of bastards!’
Harry returns with Fothergill’s beer, another for himself and one for Maurice, who continues to placate his superior: ‘Your good health, Mr Fothergill.’
Fothergill swallows his beer in one gulp, salutes crisply, turns and leaves.
‘Little cunt! I could swing fer ’im.’
‘Yer might change yer mind, ’Arry, given the news ’e’s just brought.’
‘Wot’s that, then?’
‘We’re gonna ’ave to postpone next Thursday’s little mission.’
‘Why, wot ’ave we done?’
‘Nothin’, fer a change. We’re goin’ on leave; two weeks, to Blighty, first thing in the mornin’.’
‘Fuck a duck!’
‘Too right, mate!’
‘You know wot, Mo?’
‘Wot’s that, ’Arry?’
‘Yer see Big Marge over there on ’er bike?’
‘Yer.’
‘Well, after a skinful in the Drum with me old fella, I’ll be round to see the real Big Marge. Talk abaht saddle-sore – she won’t be able to sit darn fer a week!’
‘So wot do wi do abaht the Hun sniper?’
‘We nail ’im when we get back!’
Part Two: February
* * *
GALLIPOLI: THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS
Tuesday 9 February
The Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, Whitehall, London
The War Council has been sitting all afternoon. Sir John French, Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force in France, has travelled from his HQ in St Omer, Normandy, to attend. Dinner appointments have been cancelled and sandwiches are being served, as the meeting is unlikely to end until late evening. Winston is in his element. The previous two weeks have gone well for him and the Royal Navy.
On 23 January, making use of a German naval code book sent to them by the Russians and an intercepted German signal revealing that twenty-six ships of the
Kriegsmarine’s High Seas Fleet were to sail that night, Admiral John Jellicoe was ordered to attack. The next day, off Dogger Bank in the North Sea, battle was joined. It was an impressive victory for the Royal Navy, as the German armoured cruiser Blücher was sunk with the loss of over a thousand men and the rest of the Fleet fled back to port.
Most importantly for the military strategists, and the Admiralty in particular, there now seems to be unity about the wisdom of a new theatre of operations in the Eastern Mediterranean. Jacky Fisher’s increasing stubbornness has abated, his changes of mind have ceased and he now supports the plan. Also, the French have agreed to play a major role and to do so under British command.
Winston’s star seems to be in the ascendancy, with much public praise for what the press called a ‘glorious’ victory at Dogger Bank, and a private audience with the King to brief him about the planned action in the Dardanelles, which was followed by a handwritten letter of thanks.
Best of all, the War Council seems to be coming round to the idea that, should the navy’s forcing of the Dardanelles be successful, the need for a significant army presence to secure the Gallipoli Peninsula will be crucial. Encouragingly, apart from Winston’s own well-trained Royal Naval Division, there is talk of a large force of Australian and New Zealand troops and the excellent 29th Division, a mix of five battalions of various Fusiliers, three of Borderers battalions, along with 2nd Hampshires, 4th Worcesters, 1st Essex and 5th Royal Scots.
Winston, after holding court for a major part of the evening in the War Council, especially in trying to persuade Kitchener and French to commit the army to the Dardanelles cause, has the last word, just as the clock strikes ten fifteen.
‘So, Prime Minister, to conclude. As I said to His Majesty the King last evening, our preparations could not be better. The first wave, led by the Queen Elizabeth and her eight 15-inch guns, will consist of six battleships; the second wave will also be six battleships, including four from our French comrades. The third and final wave will consist of four more battleships. Sixteen battleships in total, gentlemen; 196 guns at 6-inches or better! The Turks will not know what has hit them, but will know only too well from whence it came, because only the Royal Navy could deliver such a mighty blow.’
After the Council members disperse, Asquith asks Winston to join him in his study for a drink. Venetia Stanley is there, who finds Winston to be a bit like a curate’s egg. She loves his kindness, wit and energy, but loathes his vanity and political ambition.
Although Venetia is ten years younger than Winston and over thirty years younger than the Prime Minister, she acts like a matriarch to both. As she hands Winston a tumbler of malt and smiles warmly, she begins what Winston is certain is going to be a reproach.
‘How are Clemmie and the family?’
‘They are well, thank you. It is such a comfort to have them with me at the Admiralty.’
‘It must be. How does Clemmie cope with three little ones? She is a marvel.’
‘She is. I am a fortunate man.’
‘Henry tells me that, as usual, you held centre stage today.’
‘I hope, Venetia, that I did so eloquently.’
Asquith interrupts. ‘You were stirring, as always, Winston, but perhaps at times it was more like a speech in the House than a factual account in Council.’
Like a concerned mother, Venetia puts her hand on Winston’s arm. ‘Dearest Winston, your talents are so obvious and so prodigious, you don’t have to remind us about them quite so often.’
‘Perhaps I did get a little carried away. But I am enthused by the fight. What we are about is not for the faint-hearted; if leaders don’t go into battle with the bit between their teeth, how can we expect our sailors and soldiers to do the same? I wouldn’t say this to too many people, but so many of our generals and admirals are old men, who have perhaps lost the spark they had as young officers. Yet they are commanding young men, who need inspirational leadership; vitality and verve; vim and vigour!’
Asquith frowns. ‘Most of them are about the same age as I am. Does the same argument apply to prime ministers?’
‘Not at all, and forgive me if that’s what I implied. Politicians have a different role. They need experience and wisdom, not dash and elan; that’s for the battlefield …’
Venetia and Asquith exchange glances as Winston goes into detail for several minutes about the qualities needed by political leaders as opposed to military leaders. They listen intently until Asquith, yawning very pointedly, gets up from his chair and says that he must get some sleep.
After Winston leaves, Venetia pours Asquith another malt. She smiles as she does so. ‘It’s hard to tell Winston not to be so arrogant and pompous when he is so entertaining with it.’
‘Quite.’
Venetia pours herself a drink and goes to sit on Asquith’s lap, where she purrs contentedly. ‘How much of a risk is this Dardanelles operation, my darling?’
‘Not much, I hope. Everyone is confident; the theory is good. I suppose a lot depends on how much resistance Johnny Turk puts up.’
‘And Winston? Didn’t he want an invasion across the North Sea?’
‘He did, but he’s now fully embraced the Dardanelles. He wants an army to go as well, of course, but I’m not sure K will let him have one.’
‘He so wants to be in charge, doesn’t he? To be at the Front, leading us all to victory, sword held high, breastplate gleaming in the sun?’
‘He does; you describe it so well. It rankles with K and the generals, and with many of Winston’s own admirals, especially when he wears one of those silly uniforms he likes to concoct.’
‘Would you make him Minister of War if Kitchener went?’
‘Yes, without even blinking. If any man can win this war with, as he puts it, “vim and vigour”, it’s him, but he might put me in my grave in doing so.’
‘Could he ever be Prime Minister?’
‘No, never; he’s too much of a maverick – a brilliant one, but also an infuriating one. He makes too many enemies.’
‘So what of his future?’
‘I suspect he’ll burn himself out.’ Asquith pauses to savour a mouthful of his drink, warming to his description of Winston. ‘Yes, like a beautiful summer butterfly, a Red Admiral: so vibrant and colourful, then it’s gone.’
‘Do you mean an early death?’
‘Not necessarily, although his family is not long-lived. But his energy might turn to bitterness if he doesn’t get his way. He can get very moody, even morose. He’ll probably end up on the back benches, eventually as a Tory, for that’s what he is deep down. He’ll snipe from the wings, go to fat and write withering articles about the government of the day, full of clever verbosity and flowery prose. But he’ll still be on everyone’s dinner-party list, until he upsets them one by one.’
‘Oh dear, what a sad picture you paint.’
‘Perhaps, but I’ve got him in his prime and I’m going to make full use of him.’
When Winston returns to the Admiralty he finds Clemmie has waited up for him with a nightcap in hand.
‘How was it, Pug, darling?’
‘Very good; all is in hand. I think French is relieved there’ll be another front for people to worry about.’
‘And the plans for the Dardanelles are all in good order?’
‘Yes, I might even get some infantry – the tide is turning in Council on that. Largely because it’s blindingly obvious.’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean darling Jack will be going?’
‘No, he will stay with French in St Omer. But Bardie Stewart-Murray may get his wish. I think there’s a good chance the Scottish Horse will be on K’s list to support the 29th Division.’
‘That will be a big relief. Guarding the north-east coast will be driving Bardie to distraction, and I’m not sure Kitty enjoys travelling up and down from Northumberland every week. How was the Old Block?’
‘On very good form. Venetia was there, so he was very relaxed. He’s absol
utely besotted; like a youngster in love for the first time.’
‘Poor Margot. That woman’s a saint. Do you think she knows?’
‘I’m sure she does.’
Winston takes a mouthful of his malt before laughing out loud.
‘I nearly forgot. After Council, OB asked me to his study for a dram. I was to receive some paternal advice about my demeanour, I think. You know, “Winston’s vanity”, and so on. I felt like I was back in my house at Harrow with my housemaster and his wife. My God, Venetia is only a child herself!’
‘So did you take it in good part?’
‘Not really, I gave a brief acknowledgement, then carried on as usual, with, of course, an extra portion of vanity. I even hinted – very obliquely, mind – that Asquith might one day have to bow to a younger man.’
‘Be careful, Winston; OB’s a good man and a good friend.’
‘Yes, I know; I was only teasing him.’
‘Even so, as they say, pride comes before a fall!’
‘As who says? I loathe that expression, it’s silly, Cat. Besides, if I have to take a fall, my pride will help me get back up again.’
Friday 19 February
HMS Inflexible, off Cape Helles, Dardanelles
‘So, Mr Cawson, is this it?’
‘Aye, lad, she’s getting up speed. Constantinople, here we come!’
Ship’s Carpenter Tom Crisp and Chief Carpenter Billy Cawson are on HMS Inflexible’s deck as the battlecruiser steams forwards into the mouth of the Dardanelles. The Dardanelles is a deep channel between Europe and Asia, a little more than two miles wide at its mouth, which leads eventually into the Sea of Marmara, over 40 miles away. Further up the channel, at The Narrows, the gap is less than a mile. It is a place of maritime legend and has been one of the most dangerous routes in naval history.
Currently, the Turkish defences consist of two major forts at the mouth of the Dardanelles Channel, Sedd-el-Bahr on the European side and Kum Kale on the Asiatic shore. There are also two major fortifications at The Narrows: Kilid Bahr on the European bank and Chanak Kale on the opposite side.
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 9